Post by cuts280 on Dec 24, 2006 13:39:55 GMT -5
Dave Draper
"Over the years I’ve collected an impressive file of tough workouts to review. You see, in 40 years I’ve rarely missed one and none of them was easy. Training all out with meticulous form and mild sound effects always defined my style.
My most vivid workout memories are set against the backdrop of the muscle beach gym in the early 1960’s.This famous beloved relic once located on the unspoiled shores of Santa Monica was relocated by the encouragement of the city council to the underground basement of a collapsing retirement hotel four blocks inland. A very long, steep and unsure staircase took you to a cavernous hole in the ground with crumbling plaster walls and a ceiling that bulged and leaked diluted beer from the old-timer’s tavern above. Puddles of the stuff added charm to the dim atmosphere where three strategically placed 40 watt bulbs gave art deco shadows to the rusting barbells, dumbbells and splintery, handcrafted two by four benches and sagging milk crates.
You have no idea how proud I am to have this theater and the real life plays that unfolded day after day as a part of my experience. It’s pure gold. The magic didn’t come from the pharmacist; it came from the soul, the era, the history in the making, the presence of uncompromised originality yet to be imitated.
Those years I got the gym between 5:30 and 6:00am while the city slept, curiously content in getting a head start. By the time I left perhaps three or four other creatures would descend the lonely step and reluctantly take up arms. I like the company I keep when I am alone. I like the sound of silence; I like the uncluttered space. With the crowd of one there is no one to complain or groan, no self consciousness, no dividing your attention. No one to impress.
It was in the dungeon in 1963-66 that my toughest workouts took place. What kept me without missing a beat is another story. There was no glory except a rumor of respect and reputation among the bodybuilder-weightlifters underground. People in the real world sincerely frowned at you; a muscle head, misfit, a bewildered looser who is harming himself and isn’t doing us much good, either.
One training session in the middle of those formidable years sticks in my mind. I did have training partners from time to time and one in particular, Dick Sweet, pushed me, encouraged me, and goaded me to those otherwise un approached limits. There existed on the far end of the caving rack a set of 150 pound dumbbells, awesome in length with pipe handles and suicide welds on the ends. These unwieldy contraptions could be further enlarged by strapping 5 pound plates on either end with strips of inner tube. You got it – giant rubber bands. Getting them together took two guys some muscle and engineering. Getting them overhead took temporary insanity. We won’t talk about the 60-degree incline bench of wood and ten-penny nails wedged against the wall. Never did get a good look at it in the dark.. On the third rep of the third set the rubber band snapped and slapped me in the face. Some guys standing in the shadows snickered. Shortly thereafter a five pounder dropped and bounced off my forehead; I saw it coming. This made me serious. I had two more sets to go and no more rubber bands. A short length of rope got me through the last two sets.
Did I tell you I was supersetting? Workouts without supersets weren’t workouts at all. I was doing bent over laterals with 60s. The welds this time were on the inside of the dumbbells and cracked, not dangerous but sloppy. Every third or fourth rep the web between my thumb and the index finger of my left hand got pinched in the crack. This too, made me serious. Good thing there aren’t too many nerve endings there abd the blood flow was light or I’d have never finished my workout.
All I had left was upright rows with the rusty, comfortably bent bar over by the beer puddle and the side laterals with 50s. The 50s were tight and balanced like trophies, the best in the house
"Over the years I’ve collected an impressive file of tough workouts to review. You see, in 40 years I’ve rarely missed one and none of them was easy. Training all out with meticulous form and mild sound effects always defined my style.
My most vivid workout memories are set against the backdrop of the muscle beach gym in the early 1960’s.This famous beloved relic once located on the unspoiled shores of Santa Monica was relocated by the encouragement of the city council to the underground basement of a collapsing retirement hotel four blocks inland. A very long, steep and unsure staircase took you to a cavernous hole in the ground with crumbling plaster walls and a ceiling that bulged and leaked diluted beer from the old-timer’s tavern above. Puddles of the stuff added charm to the dim atmosphere where three strategically placed 40 watt bulbs gave art deco shadows to the rusting barbells, dumbbells and splintery, handcrafted two by four benches and sagging milk crates.
You have no idea how proud I am to have this theater and the real life plays that unfolded day after day as a part of my experience. It’s pure gold. The magic didn’t come from the pharmacist; it came from the soul, the era, the history in the making, the presence of uncompromised originality yet to be imitated.
Those years I got the gym between 5:30 and 6:00am while the city slept, curiously content in getting a head start. By the time I left perhaps three or four other creatures would descend the lonely step and reluctantly take up arms. I like the company I keep when I am alone. I like the sound of silence; I like the uncluttered space. With the crowd of one there is no one to complain or groan, no self consciousness, no dividing your attention. No one to impress.
It was in the dungeon in 1963-66 that my toughest workouts took place. What kept me without missing a beat is another story. There was no glory except a rumor of respect and reputation among the bodybuilder-weightlifters underground. People in the real world sincerely frowned at you; a muscle head, misfit, a bewildered looser who is harming himself and isn’t doing us much good, either.
One training session in the middle of those formidable years sticks in my mind. I did have training partners from time to time and one in particular, Dick Sweet, pushed me, encouraged me, and goaded me to those otherwise un approached limits. There existed on the far end of the caving rack a set of 150 pound dumbbells, awesome in length with pipe handles and suicide welds on the ends. These unwieldy contraptions could be further enlarged by strapping 5 pound plates on either end with strips of inner tube. You got it – giant rubber bands. Getting them together took two guys some muscle and engineering. Getting them overhead took temporary insanity. We won’t talk about the 60-degree incline bench of wood and ten-penny nails wedged against the wall. Never did get a good look at it in the dark.. On the third rep of the third set the rubber band snapped and slapped me in the face. Some guys standing in the shadows snickered. Shortly thereafter a five pounder dropped and bounced off my forehead; I saw it coming. This made me serious. I had two more sets to go and no more rubber bands. A short length of rope got me through the last two sets.
Did I tell you I was supersetting? Workouts without supersets weren’t workouts at all. I was doing bent over laterals with 60s. The welds this time were on the inside of the dumbbells and cracked, not dangerous but sloppy. Every third or fourth rep the web between my thumb and the index finger of my left hand got pinched in the crack. This too, made me serious. Good thing there aren’t too many nerve endings there abd the blood flow was light or I’d have never finished my workout.
All I had left was upright rows with the rusty, comfortably bent bar over by the beer puddle and the side laterals with 50s. The 50s were tight and balanced like trophies, the best in the house
